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Library of Congress. 

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I^UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.^ 



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aLEANi:NG8 



FROM OUR OWN" FIELDS 



Ucing Selections 



Catholic American Poets. 



BY 

GEORGE F. PHELAN. 



P. O'SHEA, Agent, 

IN^o. 45 Warrexx Street, New York. 

1881. 






REV. JOHN W. SHANAHAN, 

OP PHILADELPHIA, 

"^ tximtjf not of mi> fortune, but of mjself/ 

THIS BOOK 

IS 

« 

OBATEFULLT mSCBIBED. 




mTEODUCTORT. 



The present yolume of poems has been collected 
with much judgment from purely Catholic sources. 
Its object is to present one or more poems from 
Catholic American poets. Although some three 
or four whose poems adorn this book have a repu- 
tation which is more than American, there are 
others who are not quite so well known, and whose 
true poetic feeling and charming power of expres- 
sion deserve a wider field of recognition. There 
is so much of interest in the early history of 
America, so many mines of unused treasure, 
whether for poet, novelist, or historian, that 
certainly no American need ever seek a subject for 
his pen in any other than his own land. "We 
Catholic Americans should know our strength. 
Surely we have among us those who write as strong 
prose in as graceful English and give expression 
to as true poetry as any in the republic of letters. 
If we, as Catholics, will not give our own talented 
writers recognition, we may be sure that they will 



VI INTRODUCTORY. 

seek elsewhere that appreciation and reAvard which 
we deny them. 

These poems have been collected by the untiring 
energy of Mr. Phelan, a few of them from maga- 
zines which have long ceased to exist ; and cer- 
tainly they deserve preservation in the charming 
little volume which the publisher has printed so 
excellently. Let us hope that its success may 
equal its merit. 

MAETIN BURKE. 

New York. 



COMPILER'S NOTE. 



Critics of this book will please note the fact, before 
they dip their pens, that the compiler does not claim to 
have included all Catholic American poets, nor has in- 
vidious distinction had a voice in making up the volume. 

The absence of several noted names is due to the fact 
that permission to use certain poems was not given. 

Through the courtesy of the authors and, in some in- 
stances, the owners of copyright, I am indebted for the 
poems which make up this book. 

In justice to Doctor Burke, I think it necessary to 
say that a change in the plan of the book has rendered 
unadvisable the elaborate Preface first intended. 

GEORGE F. PHi:LAN. 



CONTEISTTS. 



Acton, John. ^^^n\ 

A Pansy, To, . . . • • *- 

At the Gate of June, . . . . • oo 

Gifts, 28 

How the Red got into the Sunset, . . • '«l 

Burke, Mary C. 

Legend of Sister Beatrice, The, .... 51 

Cassidy, p. S. ,„ 

Why I Celebrate the Day, . . . • • iO» 

Conway, Katherine E. 

A Memory, ■■•''•' t a 

Ferns from Watkins Glen, . . . • • »» 

Cook, Edith W. 

Lost Seeds, ••••'■• l^ 

Roma-Amor, . . . . • .86 

Dahlgren, Madeline Vinton. 

Symbols in Nature, ••••'* o. 

The Graces, . . . • • • -22 

Donnelly, Eleanor C. 

My Namesake, •••••' i?^ 

Poet's Little Rival, The, . . • • • •« 

Dunn, William Henry. 

Effects of Washington, The, . . • • lO 

Eg an, Maurice F. „. 

Christmas Mass, The, ..... IJJi 

Transition, •••••-" to 

When Mothers Watch, . . . • • • '-^ 

Elder, Susan B. 

The Souvenir, ....•• <*" 



ESLING, C. H. A. 

Legend of Santa Franccsca, The, 

Geoghegan, William. 
Morning Dream. A, 



34 



32 



My Blue-eyed Boy, . . . • • -25 

QODDARD, LT. V. a. ^„ 

Marguerite, . . . ■ • . ta 

HowARTH, Ellen Clementine. 

Thou Wilt Never Grow Old, .... 1U7 



Vlll 



CONTENTS. 



Irwin, Isabella. 

An Infant's Death, On, 

Kenny, J. W. 

The Seasons, 

Livingston, William. 
Forgiveness, 

My Mother Prays for Me, 
Two Bits of Spray, 

Locke, John, 

Morning on the Irish Coast, 

Mannix. Mary E. 

A Picture of St. Agnes, On, 
A Sweet Singer, 

Miles, George H. 
Said the Rose, 

McClure, Rev. W. J. 
Cathedral Birds, . 
Mountain of the Holy Cross, 
Vales and Mouutains, 

McHuGH, John A. 

At Sea, 
Saint Cecilia, 

Norris, J. W. S. 

Answered Ave, The, 
First Friday Flowers, 
Sponsa Dilecta Christi, 

O'Reilly, John Boyle. 

Old School Clock, The, 

Ryder, Eliot. 
Sonnets, 

Savage, John. 

The Sunlit Path, 

Seton, William. 

A Prophecy, . 

Smith, Sarah T. 

A Thoughtful Hour, 
Children's Thoughts, The, . 
Word of the New Year, 

Tabb, John B. 
Cedron, 

Treacy, Rev. W. P. 

Always Light in Heaven, There is, 
Hymn to the Queen of May, A, 

Vannah, Kate. 

A Flower's Name, 
Good Night, . 

Waylen, Eliza. 

A Young Poet, 
A Forest Fantasy, 



16 

91 
44 

35 

61 

85 

81 

67 
95- 
92 

38 
97 

29 
4-2 
39 

19 

9 



108 

. 99 

48 
. 17 

106 



. 23 
50 



SONNETS AND OTHER POEMS. 



SONNETS. 

I. 

She has not that rare beauty which the most 

Of women have whom men consider fair : 
Yet, fairest of all features, she can boast 

A crown of rich, luxuriant, yellow hair, 
No miser gloating o'er his glittering hoard 

Looks on his clinking coins with joy more rare 
Than gaze I on the wealth of beauty stored 

Within my loved one's flowing golden hair. 

Dear lady of my earnest love ! the years 

Work changes in the spirit of men's dreams ; 

The fondest love oft drowns itself in tears. 
Or seeks a solace in life's sordid schemes. 

Be thy love mine, and wealth I e'er shall share 
AVhile gazing on thy glorious yellow hair. 

II. 
Though I perchance may look with love-blind eyes, 
I find but one fair woman in this world. 



10 THE "EFFECTS OF WASHINGTON." 

And wlien between us angry discords rise, 
The shades of grief around my heart are hurled. 

Yet still I know when comes the Sabbath morn, 
And we together kneel at Holy Mass, 

The angry thoughts with which our hearts are torn. 
Will vanish swift as mountain torrents pass. 

Hail, then, the Holy Sacrifice divine 

Which brings us to the presence of our Lord ! 

No man may dare approach the bread and wine 
Within whose heart an evil thought is stored ; 

And so, whate'er my loved one's anger be, 
The Sabbath will restore her heart to me. 

Eliot Ryder. 



THE "EFFECTS OF WASHINGTON.'* 

The following jeu de mot suggested itself upon 
the writer's being shown at the Patent Office in 
Washington the garments, sword, etc., of Wash- 
ington, marked in the glass case which contained 
them; " Effects of Washington :'' 

His effects in that glass case — great Washington's ? 

No, 
They could not be seen yet by mortals below. 
They spread through all nations, they float on 

each sea, / 



THE "EFFECTS OF WASHINGTON." 11 

And continuous spring from the '* Land of the 

Free." 
Take the child to the fount whence the river first 

ran. 
And show its effects to that child if you can. 
Its effects must be shown in its widespreading 

course, 
But cannot be shown at its limited source. 
Seek the famishing peasant, with eyes toward the 

West, 
Hoping comfort and aid from that land of the 

blest— 
Ask him the effects of that Heaven-sent chief, 
And he'll point to a part, a whole nation's relief ! 
Ask the millions who cover our own happy soil. 
Released from monarchical serfdom and toil, 
Whence deliverance sprang, young and old will 

proclaim 
With soul-felt hosannahs our Washington's name ; 
And the land that receives, and the law that pro- 
tects — 
They cherish as Washington's noblest effects. 
His effects, and their blessings, can only be shown 
When Time takes his stand at Eternity's throne ! 
William Henry Dukjs^. 



12 LOST SEEDS. 

LOST SEEDS. 
I. 

'Tis an old Navajo legend 

That each, seeming-wasted seed, 
Though on earth its germ nnfolds not. 

Finds its perfect life, indeed, 
In the after-world where spirits from their earthly 
thrall are freed. 

Fair the yellow-tasselled maize-fields. 

Soft the music of their leaves 
In the west wind gently rustling. 

Full the harvest of their sheaves 
When the lingering ghost of summer through the 
crimson forest grieves. 

Sweet the flowers of the woodland 

Nestling low amid the shade, 
Strong the giant redwood lifting 

Towering, sunset-crowned head ; 
Each to earth some beauty giving ere the day's 
hours all are sped. 

Much men praise their lavish beauty — 
Blossom frail and golden ear — ' 



LOST SEEDS. 13 

Marking not the dark seeds scattered. 

Finding not perfection here, 
Seeking in the earth's deep bosom sunshine of 
another sphere. 

For, so runs the Indian legend. 

Lies the after-world of life 
'Neath our earth, in sunny prairies 

Death-freed souls find but through strife, 
Troubled wandering through morasses all with 
gloomy shadows rife. 

In this happy land of plenty 

Golden maize-field faileth ne'er. 
While the Indian's singing arrow 

Bird and bison findeth e'er ; 
And the blossoms never wither, ne'er the painted 
leaves grow sere. 

In these fertile fields Elysian 

Bloom the lost seeds of the earth, 
Softly sinking ever deeper 

From their upper life of dearth. 
Changing for a joy unfading sunny hours of short- 
lived mirth. 

II. 

Come unto the human bosom 
Scattered seeds of thought divine ! 



14 LOST SEEDS. 

Seeds that lift no least green leaflet 

To the glad day's warm sunshine — 
Lying deep in heart's recesses, like rare jewel in 
the mine. 

Golden fields of unstained glory 

Glitter in the noonday sun ; 
Tender flowers of gracious duty 

From the shade have sweetness won ; 
Generous strength wears sunset splendor when its 
earthly day is done. 

But the little dark seed bearing 

Naught of flower that men can see, 
Is not lost, if yet unheeded. 

Sinking ever silently 
Deeper in the heart's wide garden, ripening for 
eternity. 

Freshened by the dews of heaven, 

Fed with life-blood from the heart;, 
All unseen the folded pinions 

Ever gather strength to start 
When, in God's eternal gardens, burst the prison 
bars apart. 

Where the hidden seed wins beauty 
More than earth's since all-divine : ' 



LOST SEEDS. 15 

Perfected through years unconscious. 
Fair its fruit and blossoms shine — 
Pure as jewel's perfect crystal won unshattered 
from the mine. 

III. 

So, poet ! though as wasted 

Fall thy songs upon the earth. 
Though men listen not their music. 

Holding them as little worth. 
Sorrow not for thought unheeded, so it be of 
heavenly birth. 

Sinking deep in some heart's garden 

Thy unnoticed thought shall lie, 
Nourished by the soul's devotion 

Till earth's bonds asunder fly. 
And the music of thy singing echoes through 
eternity. 

Mingling with saints' adoration 

Earth-forgotten words of thine — 
Thy lost thoughts are found in Heaven, 

Blossoms there thy seed divine ; 
Fairer than earth's golden maize-fields perfect 
fruit and blossom shine. 

Edith W. Cook. 



16 THE SEASONS. 

THE SEASONS. 



"What magician pulls the string 

That uncurtains twinkling, pretty spring 

And the swallow with his wing 

Against the sky ? 
Who brings the branch its green, 
And the honey-bee a queen ? 

*'IsitI?" 

Said April, *^I? 

Yes, 'tis I." 

II. 

What aerial artist limns 

Kock and cloud with brush that dims 

Titian's oils and Hogarth's whims 

In shape and dye ? 
What Florimel embowers 
Lawn and lake with arching flowers ? 

^^ Is it I?'' 

Said bright July, 

"Yes, 'tis I." 

III. 

What good genii drop the grains 
Of new sugar in the canes, ' 



THE WORD OF THE NEW YEAR. 17 

Who fills up the apple's veins 

With sweetened dew ? 
Who hangs the painted air 
With the grape and golden pear ? 

Is it you, 

October ? You ? 

Yes, 'tis to you. 

IV. 

Who, careering, sweeps the plain. 
Scoffing at the violet's pain. 
Echoing back, and back again 

His wild haloo ? 
Who makes the yule-fire foam 
Round the glowing hearth of home, 

Is it you, 

December ? You ? 

Aye, 'tis you ! 

Thos. W. Keitny, M.D. 



THE WORD OF THE NEW YEAR. 

" We always may be what we might have been." 

A. A. Proctor. 

Dawneth the New Year sadly. 
Because of the years gone by ? 



18 THE WORD OF THE NEW YEAR. 

Dawneth the New Year gladly, 
Because of joys that are nigh ? 

What is the message it bringeth 
To your heart, friend, and to mine, 

If, from the misty gleamings 
We welcome the Voice Divine ? 

** Neither the Past nor the Future 

Belong to the soul of to-day. 
Step by step, and unknowing 

Thou hast traversed life by My way. 
Mine was the hand that bound thee, 

Mine was the touch that freed — 
Mine was the hidden meaning 

Of lines that were hard to read. 

*' Mine is the time beyond thee. 

It lies in my loving hand. 
All of its wealth thou earnest 

I will pay thee at thy demand. 
And if thou wilt only give me 

Thy best— if the hours be few. 
Or if they stretch on to even. 

Thy best shall receive its due. 

* ' There is no time for regretting, 
Until time shall be no more — 

But now is the time for forgetting 
The things that have gone before.' 



THE "OLD SCHOOL CLOCK." 19 

The year that has dawned so newly, 

To-day, that helongs to thee, 
May crown thee with life and glory. 

Through time for eternity." 

Sarah T. Smith. 



THE "OLD SCHOOL CLOCK.'' 

Sad memories rush o'er my mind just now 

Of faces and friends of the past— 
Of that happy time when life's dream was all 
bright. 

Ere the clear sky of youth was o'ercast. 
Very dear are those mem'ries ; they've clung 
round my heart, 

And bravely withstood Time's rude shock. 
But not one is more hallowed or dear to, me now 

Than that of the " Old School Clock." 

'Twas a quaint old clock, with a quaint old face, 

And great iron weights and chain. 
And it stopped when it liked, and, before it struck. 

It groaned as if 'twere in pain. 
It had seen many years ; and it seemed to say— 

*' I'm one of the real old stock," 
To the youthful fry who with reverence looked 

On the face of the " Old School Clock." 



20 THE "OLD SCHOOL CLOCK." 

All ! many a time have I labored to sketch 

That yellow and time-honored face. 
With its basket of flowers, its figures, and hands. 

And the weights and the chains in their place ; 
And oft have I gazed with admiring eye, 

As I sat on the wooden block. 
And pondered and guessed at the wonderful things 

That were inside the '^ Old School Clock." 

What a terrible frown did the " Old Clock" wear 

To the truant who timidly cast 
An anxious eye on those merciless hands 

Which, for him, had been moving too fast. 
But it lingered not long, for it loved to smile 

On that noisy, thoughtless flock ; 
And it creaked, and whirred, and struck with glee, 

Did that genial, good-humored " Old Clock." 

Well ! years had passed, and my mind was filled 

With the world, its cares, and its ways. 
When again I stood in that little school 

Where I passed my boyhood's days. 
My old friend ims gone ! and there hung a thing 

Which my feelings seemed to mock 
As I gazed with a saddened and sorrowing heart 

At a new-fashioned Yankee Clock. 

'Twas a gaudy thing, with bright painted sides. 
And it looked with an insolent stare / 



HOW THE RED GOT INTO THE SUNSET. 21 

At the desks, and the seats, and at everything 
old;— 
And I thought of the friendly air 
Of the face that I missed, and the chains and 
weights. 
All gone to the auctioneer's block. 
'Tis a thing of the past ; never more will I see, 
Save in mem'ry, that old '' School Clock." 

'Tis the way of the world ! Old friends pass away, 

And fresh faces appear in their stead ; 
But still, 'mid the bustle and strife of this earth. 

We cherish the tlioughts of the dead. 
Yes ! dear are those mem'ries ; they've clung 
round my heart. 

And bravely withstood Time's rude shock ; 
But not one is more hallowed or dear to me now 

Than the face of that " Old School Clock." 
JoHK Boyle O'Reilly. 



HOW THE RED GOT INTO THE SUNSET. 

A BED rose flew up to her sun-king, 
And begged him to leave his blue lair, 

And wither the long-throated lilies. 
Whose scorn was the roses' despair. 



32 THE GRACES. 

The sun kept his spite from the lilies. 
And smote the sweet pleader instead : 

He covered his heart with her petals, 
And marked the young stars as he fled. 

John- Actok. 



THE GRACES. 

The mystic spell that Genius weaves 
Hath ever magic power to charm, 

Nor bitter dregs such thraldom leaves. 
On tyrant's forceful will, to harm. 

But hand in hand the Graces move. 
Dispelling dismal depths of woe. 

To use the gifts lent from above. 

Forms their blest mission here below. 

Let Music, Poesy, and Art, 
United claim, and gain a sway. 

Persuade and elevate the heart. 
And cast o'er life their sacred ray 

The nations rise with brutal force. 
To bind the heart and soul of man. 

But Genius bids them feel remorse. 
And move in God's predestined plan. 

Madeleine Vinton Dahi^gren. 



GIFTS. 23 

A FLOWER'S NAME. 

Down- in tlie tender grasses 'neatli my sill, 
Where I lean forth each day to greet the dawn, 
And lean again, when light from earth is gone 
To pray for thee ; all of its own sweet will 
A tiny flower has come, so fair, and still. 
And new to me, I've given it thy name, 
And often do I marvel why it came 
The evening air with redolence to fill. 
The first time that I found it blooming there, 
At once I cried : " God answers thus the prayer, 
Which every morn and every eve I say, 
Eor my soul's friend, so far, so far away : 
He yields this sign, that after our long pain 
Of separation, we shall meet again." 

Kate Vannah. 



GIFTS. 



We thank some dear friend for a rosebush 
That holds in green arms a seed. 

Which, nurtured by rain and by sunshine, 
Shall render a musky meed. 

Or else for a scarlet-veined lily. 
That plays coquette with the sun, 



24: THE LEGEND OF SANTA FRANCESCA. 

And stealing the spots of the leopard, 
Transfigures them one by one. 

Yet what is the worth of rose-petals 

That die in the dying night, 
Or the shreds of a bleeding lily. 

Overthrown in the wind's keen flight? 

Ah ! when His dear Mother shall gain us, 
Christ's blessing at her behest. 

The gift of the love of our Saviour — 
'Tis this that will prove the best. 

JoHK AcfoK. 



THE LEGEND OF SANTA FRANCESCA. 

Sakta FrAncesca, prest by many a care. 
Her ref age sought in solitude and prayer : 

In which blest state, old legends say that she 
Enjoyed the presence of the angels' company. 

Howe'er it be, certes, as she one day 
Unto her oratory had retired to pray. 

And soothe her soul with meditation's balms, 
Drawn from j)rayer's purest founts, the holy 
psalms, 

Three several times by duty's summons prest. 
Cheerfully she rose and answered its behest. 



MY BLUE-EYED BOY. 25 

And thrice returning at the self-same verse 
Essayed, in vain, its sweet words to rehearse. 

The last time searching down the page, behold ! 
The oft-neglected verse re-writ in text of gold 

By angel hands, this lesson teaching all : 
He serves God best who answer's duty's call. 

And sweetly making work a prayer untold. 
Gilds labor's dross with merit's purest gold. 

C. H. A. EsLiNG. 



MY BLUE-EYED BOY. 

The soldier when his battle's won 

And war's wild clangor o'er. 
The exile when he feasts his eyes 

On native land once more. 
The poet in his brightest dream 

Ne'er felt such holy joy, 
As comes to me when I behold 

My own, my blue-eyed boy. 

There's 'round him such a tender grace 

And such a winning way, 
He's like a sunbeam 'round the house 

When daylight's gone away ; 



26 MY BLUE-EYED BOY. 

And when he runs to welcome me 
At morning, noon, or night, 

I think a glimpse of Paradise 
Is bursting on my sight. 

But how can tongue or pen of mine 

Portray a niother's love. 
That surrounds him like a halo 

From the Throne of Light above ! 
Were mine the magic power that makes 

The poet's perfect art, 
I ne'er could tell how dear he is 

Unto his mother's heart. 

He's now the only solace left 

To cheer life's eventide. 
For one by one God's angels took 

His sisters from my side ; 
But well I know they're gazing clown 

From Heaven's immortal sphere 
Upon the blue-eyed boy whom God 

Is pleased to leave me here. 

- Oh, oft I think when gazing fond 
Into his winsome face, 
Of how when grown to man's estate 
He'll take his father's place. / 



MY MOTHER PRAYS FOR ME. 27 

God grant the pathway I have marked 

For him thro' future years, 
May ne'er run thro' the shadowland 

Of sorrows, glooms, and tears. 

Wm. Geoghegan-. 



MY MOTHER PRAYS FOR ME. 

When" I knelt before the altar 

In my innocence and youth. 
And resolved to never falter 

In the utterance of truth. 
There were prayers to Heaven ascending, 

Asking grace for me, and care, 
With the songs of angels blending — 

'Twas a loving mother's prayer. 

And although I pine for pleasure, 

And forget my early days, 
Still I know I have a treasure, 

Still I feel that some one prays ; 
For when sin or sorrow nears me. 

Worldly comfort seems to flee. 
Then the holy thought that cheers me, 

Is, my mother prays for me. 

Oh, how light we prize the jewel 
Which is ours in joy or tears ! 



38 TO A PANSY. 

And how often are we cruel 

In our young and thoughtless years. 

We can only have one mother- 
When her spirit leaves us here, 

We can never find another 
Who to us will be so dear. 

So I think of her wlio bore me, 

She who fondly call'd me child ; 
For her face is still before me, 

Like an angel's, calm and mild. 
And though far away I'm straying, 

She shall ne'er forgotten be, 
For a voice within keeps saying 

That my mother prays for me. 

Wm. Livii^^gston. 



TO A PANSY. 

Sweet pansy ! 
Is this what thy petals are — 
Twilights anchored round a star ? 
Or a small sun faded into blue 
Up to a gold-corded space for dew r 

Thy beauty may be from either one ; 

But I leave that to eve and the sun. 



THE ANSWERED "AVE." 29 

Sweet pansy ! 

Rich-lidded ametliyst from some young angel's 

brow, 

Or dropped from the velvet of his wings' looped 

snow — 

This thou art ; 

And garden text of God — 

The text, " Love/' not '* My rod "— 

This thou art, 

Sweet pansy ! 

John Acton". 



THE ANSWERED ^' AVE." 

The dear Saint Bernard ere eve's shadows fell 
Throughout the cloister's fair and fragrant 

shade. 
Paused as the golden sunbeams slowly fade, 
List'ning to the holy Angelus bell. 
Which thro' each happy hermit's peaceful cell 
Poured its full note, re-echoed, then decayed. 
'Neath Mary's image ling'ring he delayed 
To breathe his loving " Ave :" Legends tell 
From out the pure white marble lips there came 
A voice of wondrous sweetness, thrilling 
power. 
That Bernard's greeting answered graciously : 



30 THE SOUVENIR. 

Mary ! kindle in my heart Love's flame 
That I may greet thee thro' life's every hour, 
Hopeful of welcome sweet, at death, from thee. 

J. W. S. NORRIS. 



THE SOUVENIR. 

Come hither, little daughter, and let me clasp this 

charm. 
This rich and radiant bracelet, upon thy dimpled 

arm, 
Nay, look not so coquettish ; 'tis not to make thee 

vain 
Thy mother decks thee, darling, with a golden, 

glittering chain. 

But to bind unto thy spirit the loveliness and 

worth 
Of her who wore this jewel ere she glided out of 

earth, 
And the memory of whose virtues forever more 

shall dwell. 
Like lights upon an altar, in the hearts she loved 

so well. 

It is her mother, darling, who sends my daughter 

this. 
Bidding her resemble that dear one now (in bliss ; 



THE SOUVENIR. 31 

And to her earnest pleading, thy mother joins her 

prayer 
That grace may keep thee innocent, and virtue 

make thee fair. 

Be ever pure and gentle, with heart and hand re- 
plete 

With blessings for the lowly that cluster round 
thy feet ; 

Give courage to the weary ; lift up the sinking 
form 

Left helpless in the struggle against Temptation's 
storm. 

Like hers, be thine the beauty that with it ever 

brings 
A sense of holiest virtues, a dream of heavenly 

things, 
As if her Guardian Angel, with tender, loving 

grace, 
Dropt from his wings a splendor to light her form 

and face. 

I pray thou mayest be like her in all the graces 
rare. 

Which made her mind so lovely, and her angel- 
face so fair. 



32 A MORNING DREAM. 

May peace attend thy footsteps, and Love his 

roses shed. 
Without one thorn of anguish around thy golden 

head. 

And now, dear one, thou knowest 'tis not to make 

thee vain . 
Thy mother decks thee, darling, with a golden, 

glittering chain. 
But to hind unto thy spirit the loveliness and 

worth 
Of her who wore this jewel ere she glided out of 

earth. 

Fond hearts were left in sorrow, and a home in 

deepest gloom. 
For the flowers of her bridal lent beauty to her 

tomb. 
She faded in her spring-time, when life was full of 

bliss — 

I pray thou may'st be like her, but / cannot ask 

for this ! 

Susan B. Elder. 



A MORNING DREAM. 

I, FAR removed from meadows green, 
From tranquil shade or woodland lawns. 



A MORNING DREAM. 33 

Lie in my attic, all alone, 

And dream the while the morning dawns, 
About my brain there flit, like birds. 

Thoughts of a past surpassing fair ; 
I hear old unforgotten words, 

Eemembered footsteps on the stair. 

Old odors, olden songs, perhaps — 

Sleep seems to melt them into one — 
Come back, and all the long elapse 

Of time rolls back to days long gone. 
I know I'm dreaming, if T wake 

I shall descend to narrow days 
And petty cares, which grudge and take 

The time I'd spend in other ways. 

My daily labor, hard and stern. 

Gives me so little, takes so much ; 
Gives me such wages as I earn. 

But chills my life with icy touch. 
There's nothing left. Vainly I think 

In duty done to find content ; 
Each dawning day wakes me to shrink 

From life, from which the soul seems rent. 

This is my happiest hour, this time 
Brief moment of my morning dream. 

Before I hear the unwelcome chime 
Sounding more oft in rain than gleam. 



34 A MORNING DREAM. 

'Tis then I smell the lilies white, 

Whose tall stalks swayed in that still place. 
Half garden, half a desert bright, 

Where last I saw you face to face. 

I see you as you stood, I hear 

Your Yoice that mingled with the birds', 
And all the sounds far off and near. 

Making a prelude to your words. 
I look beyond, across the wold. 

To where the windmill stood, and hurl'd 
Its giant arms, that turned and roll'd 

In dizzy motion, quickly whirled. 

I see the pigeons wheeling high 

Above our heads ; the golden bees, 
Treasured with honey-laden thigh, 

Like winged insect argosies. 
I see it all ; it fades and dies 

Into the gray of waking hours. 
As rainbows fade in summer skies. 

Whose brilliant color mocked the flowers. 

weary light ! that comes to glad 
A hundred hearts, no smile you bring 

To me, whose heart, though now so sad, 
Was once as light as swallow's wing. 

fields ! where never more my feet 
Will tread, as in the long ago, I 



MORNING ON THE IRISH COAST. 35 

In dreams I smell yonr fragrance sweet 
And see the corn-flowers sway and blow. 
Wm. Geoghegai^. 



MORNING ON THE IRISH COAST. 

[The incident which prompted the writing of 
the following lines was related to me by a friend 
on his return from a yisit to Ireland. On the 
voyage eastward, mj friend made the acquaint- 
ance of an old Irishman, who, in his frank and 
candid way, told him that he had been thirty 
years residing in '' the States," and that he was 
then going home to spend the evening of his life 
in the Old Land, amid the scenes of his boyhood. 
The old man's deep anxiety to see Ireland once 
more made my friend take a special interest in 
him. The night before the boat reached the Irish 
shore they both remained on deck ; and, as the 
dawning broke, they were rewarded for their 
weary vigil by beholding the dim outlines of the 
Irish coast. The sight awakened the old man's 
slumbering enthusiasm, and his first impassioned 
exclamation was : *' The top o' the mornin' to 
you, Ireland, alanna !"] 



36 MORNING ON THE IRISH COAST. 

Tlian-a-mo Dhia ! but there it is ! 

The dawn on the hills of Ireland — 
God's angels lifting the night's black veil 

From the fair, sweet face of my sireland ! 
Ireland ! isn't it grand you look, 

Like a bride in her rich adornin'', 
And with all the pent-up love of m}'^ heart, 

I bid you the top o' the mornin' ! 

This one brief hour pays lavishly back 

For many a year of mourning ; 
I'd almost venture another flight. 

There's so much joy in returning — 
Watching out for the hallowed shore. 

All other attractions scornin'; 
Ireland ! don't you hear me shout? 

I bid you the top o' the mornin' ! 

Ho, ho ! upon Cleana's shelving strand. 

The surges are grandly beating ; 
And Kerry is pushing her headlands out 

To give us the kindly greeting ; 
In to the shore the sea birds fly 

On pinions that know no drooping, 
And out from the cliffs with welcome charged 

A million of waves come trooping. 

kindly, generous Irish land. 
So leal, and fair, aud loving, 



MORNING ON THE IRISH COAST. 37 

• 

No wonder the wandering Celt should think 

And dream of you in his roving ! 
The alien home may have gems and gold. 

Shadows may never have gloomed it. 
But the heart will sigh for the absent land 

Where the love lights first illumed it ! 

And doesn't old Cove look charming there, 

Watching the wild waves' motion, 
Leaning her back up against the hills. 

And the tip of her toes in the ocean ! 
I wonder I don't hear Shandon's bells — 

Ah, maybe their chiming's over. 
For it's many a year since I began 

The life of a Western rover ! 

For thirty summers, astJiore machree, 

Those hills I now feast my eyes on 
Ne'er met my vision, save when they rose 

Over memory's dim horizon ; 
E'en so, 'twas grand and fair they seemed 

In the landscape spread before me ; 
But dreams are dreams, and my eyes would ope 

To see Texas' sky still o'er me. 

Ah, often upon the Texan plains. 

When the day and the chase were over. 

My thoughts would fly o'er the weary wave 
And around this coast line hover ! 



38 AT SEA. 

And the prayer would rise, that some future day, 
All danger and doubting scornin', 

I might help to win for my native land 
The light of young Liberty's mornin'. 

Now fuller and truer the shore line shows — 

Was ever a scene so splendid ? 
I feel the breath of the Munster breeze — 

Thank God that my exile's ended ! 
Old scenes, old songs, old friends again. 

The vale and cot I was born in ! 
Ireland ! up from my heart of hearts, 

I bid you the top o' the mornin' ! 

JoHK Locke. 



AT SEA. 

Night reigns in triumph o'er the sea 
And the glimmering lights on the far-off lea 
Shine dim and drear. 

The ship sails on in calm and peace 
O'er rolling waves that never cease 

To surge and beat. 

And out from clouds of black and gray, 
Chasing the dark and gloom away. 

The moon appears. 



SPONSA DILECTA CHRISTI. 39 

Casting upon tlie billowy tide 
A light to the ship in her perilous ride 
Over the sea. 

My soul breathes forth a silent prayer 
That angels may keep in their loving care 
Our ship this night. 



The night has waned, and in its place, 
Like the presence of God's sweet, holy grace, 
The dawn is seen. 

And the ship sails on in calm and peace 
O'er rolling waves that never cease 

To surge and beat. 
JOHIf A. McHuGH. 



SPONSA DILECTA CHRISTL 

Like Mary in the Temple, dwell, dear child, 

Blooming in cloister shades a lily-flower ; 

Sweet innocence thy priceless, peerless dower, 
As seal placed on thy heart that, undefiled. 
From thoughts of God and heaven is ne'er beguiled. 

VSiled from thy happy, radiant, bridal hour ; 

E'er mindful of thy Hidden Spouse's power. 
The promise of His Sacred Heart so mild. 



40 A MEMORY. 

Flower of the lily ! on tliee Heaven's dews droj) 
down, 
Treasure the sweetness of the Hidden Life ; 
Thy Nazareth is Mary's Paradise. 
Jesus is thine ; thy Spouse ; thy Virgin crown, 
Mary and Joseph guard thee from all strife, 
And hedge thee 'round with grace from worldly 
eyes. J. W. S. Norris. 



A MEMORY. 

YE virginal white rose-buds, all dewy, sweet, 

and tender, 
Swaying on your frail, frail stems, though ne'er 
a breeze doth blow, 

1 love ye for that fairer bud that perished 'mid 

the splendor 
Of the song and sun and fragrance two summer- 
tides ago ! 

I called her oft our rosebud — no flow'ret's name 
seemed meeter 
For the pure and joyful promise of her lovely 
girlish grace ; 
But past my art to picture — than all my dreaming 
sweeter, 
The glorious, wondrous spirit-light upon her 
fair young face. 



A MEMORY. 41 

the baleful fever-breatli our fragile blossom 
blighting ! 
the bitter chalice to our darling's young lips 
pressed ! 
the fitful gleams of false, false hope, a while our 
darkness lighting ! 
the days and nights of agony and woful wild 
unrest [ 



But the Lord Himself was with her to pity her 
and love her ; 
Earthly lover shared not her maiden-heart with 
Him, 
And the gentle Virgin Mother and the angels 
bent above her, 
And their glory round her brightened as the 
lights of time grew dim ! 

My friend, my chosen sister— child and woman 
strangely blended — 
Did thy spirit go out gladly, leaving blessing 
as it fled ? 
For all its living loveliness thy face in death tran- 
scended. 
Purer than the snowy blossoms o'er thy virgin- 
vesture spread. 



42 FIRST FRIDAY FLOWERS. 

heart tliat loved me loyally, that prized my poor 
endeavor, 
Did I love thee purely, truly, I would be glad 
for thee ! 
But oh, my life without thee ! Lord of the bright 
forever. 
Forgive my 'plaint who knowest what my dar- 
ling was to me ! 

Katherine E. Conway. 



FIRST FRIDAY FLOWERS. 

(I2JSCRIBED TO MISS ELEAl^OR C. DONNELLY.) 



Where shall we look for flowers to-day, 
B\\ir and fresh for the altar- throne ? 

Summer blooms are hidden away 
Deep 'neatli the snowy circling zone. 

II. 

Faded the blossoms that sweetly lent 

Their beauty to brighten the resting-place 

Of the ever- Adorable Sacrament — 
Departed all their fragrant grace ! 



FIRST FRIDAY FLOWERS. 43 

III. 

The mountain's side is swept with hail, 

Where the ling' ring lilies drooped and died ; 

Deep is the snow in the shady vale, 
Where the sweet shy pansies loved to hide. 

IV. 

Naught remains of the roses bright 
That clambered about the chapel-door ; 

Only the thorn-crown greets our sight — 
The roses, alas I are ours no more. 

V. 

Those festal buds of the Sacred Heart, 
Red and warm like Its wondrous love 

(Which burns Its graces to impart 
To those that soul's devotion prove)— 

VI. 

Oh ! where shall we look for their bloom to-day ? 

The earth's sweet charms are dead and drear ; 
Turn not, in tears, good friends, away. 

There are other blossoms to offer here. 

VII. 

Dear children ! bring your lilies pure 
Of innocence, and roses warm 



44 TWO BITS OF SPRAY. 

Of heart's fond love that doth endure 
When coldly wails life's wintry storm. 

VIII. 

Ah ! suff'ring hearts, your garland bring, 
The thorns (of life's sweet roses robb'd) — 

Dear is the gift to the thorn-crowned King, 
Whose Heart thro' the wof ul Passion throbb'd. 

IX. 

Contrite souls ! ye may offer here 

Purple pansies of penance true, 
Gemm'd with affliction's heart- wrung tear. 

Dripping with Mercy's plenteous dew. 

X. 

Sacred Heart of our God and King ! 

We place these buds on Thy winter- shrine ; 
Dear Lord ! accept our offering, 

And make our hearts like unto Thine I 

Joseph W. S. Norris. 



TWO BITS OF SPRAY. 

I WANDERED by the river-side, 

And watched the waters, flowing free. 



TWO BITS OF SPRAY. 45 

With twigs and leaves and blossoms dried, 
All riding calmly towards the sea. 

And as I gazed, two bits of spray 
Came floating by me, white and fair. 

And as they passed, a ripple's play 
Brought them together ; so the pair. 

Thus strangely met, went down the stream 

And fondly to each other clung, 
As if they feared a moment's dream 

Of being apart more widely flung. 

Thus loving hearts should journey on 
The streams that flows through every age. 

And lean each other's breast upon, 
Nor heed the storms that round them rage. 

No gay bedecked, alluring scene 

Should tempt them from each other's side ; 
No angry wave should come between 

To send them drifting with the tide. 

So bound secure in Love's embrace. 

And cheered by flowers along the shore ; 

Preserved and soothed by God's own grace. 
They'll rest in Heaven, the journey o'er. 
Wm. Livikgston. 



46 A FOREST FANTASY, 

A FOREST FANTASY. 

Far in the forest a fountain is leaping, 

Bubbling and clear in its pebble-strewn cup ; 

Ferns cluster round it and mosses come creeping 
Down to the waters that never dry up. 

Clasping some treasure with delicate fingers — 
Singing sweet songs to the solitude dim — 

Close by the fountain a water-sprite lingers, 
Like a pale flower on that moss-covered rim. 

I. 

** My Fairy Prince had one heart of gold, 

Never yet by nymph possest ; 
For counterfeits lurked in every fold 

Of his pearl-embroidered vest. 

II. 

'* He climbed the stars with the sprites of air, 
And played in the fields of blue ; 

In jewelled caves where the gnomes repair 
He has laughed and frolicked, too. 

III. 
" Beyond the blue, and beneath the grass, 
Those counterfeit hearts were known ; 



A FOREST FANTASY. 47 

Ah ! nymphs saw not they were only brass— 
Till they had given their own ! 

IV. 

" I sit alway by my fountain's cup. 
And watch that it never dries ; 

My Prince came here ere the moon was up- 
Together we marked her rise. 

V. 

'' Here did he linger till break of day, 
Linger till noontide was past — 

Why did he laughingly slip away, 
Leaving me lonely at last ? 

YI. 

*^ This is no counterfeit heart I hold ; 

Was it not plucked from his breast ? 
This is that heart of the purest gold 

Never yet by nymph possest." 

Night passes on. To these forest recesses 
Moonbeams steal trembling, a silvery band. 

Glance by the water-sprite's lily-decked tresses, 
Light on the counterfeit, dropt from her hand. 

Eliza Waylen. 



48 THE CHILDREN'S THOUGHTS. 

THE CHILDREN'S THOUGHTS. 

When" the sweet May mornings, my darlings, 

Awaken yon one and all ; 
When you hear the sparrow and robin 

To their tender mate-birds call ; 
When, in at the open window, 

The sun shines, wide and clear. 
What thoughts are the first to whisper 

Their greetings in your ear ? 

Do you think of the fair spring blossoms 

Uprising in vale and wood — 
Star-flowers and the wild anemone, 

And purple violet hood, 
The gold of the paly crocuses. 

The gleam of the daffodil. 
The waxen beauty and perfumed breath 

Of arbutus under the hill ? 

Do you think of the singing waters, 

Going on to the dark old town. 
Past the nest of the water- wagtail. 

And the home of the squirrel brown. 
Past the hole of the gray old marsh-rat. 

Deep sunk in the reedy bank, 
Past the rushes, swaying and bending. 

Close rising, rank on rank ? 



THE CHILDREN'S THOUGHTS. 49 

Yes, dimly and all unconscious, 

Sucli visions as these arise. 
Oil, fair is the earth we live on 

To the little children's eyes ! 
They cannot '' class " the blossoms, 

They count no " time or tide," 
But they live, and their angels teach them 

That Heaven is far and wide. 

They Tenow it, for do not daily 

All lovely things appear ? 
And is there not wondrous music 

In the countless sounds they hear ? 
So much to do— and gladly— 

So much to see and f eel— 
The shadows of marvellous nightfall, 

To-morrow, will more reveal. 

The little children teach us. 

They take, with a loving smile ; 
They placidly dream and wonder, 

But their work goes on the while ; 
Whatever is is pleasant. 

And their tears fall but to gem. 
The mantle of sweet contentment 

The Master weaves for them. 

From the little children's visions 
What mighty deeds grow real ! 



50 GOOD-NIGHT. 

On what lessons of love and beauty 
The long years set their seal ! 

Let us be gravely tender, 
Let us be proudly glad, 

"When they trust us with one small whisper 
Of one faint thought they've had. 

Sarah T. Smith. 



GOOD-NIGHT. 



GooD-KiGHT, dear heart, so far from mine ; 
Good-night, fair face, for which I pine ; 
O'er thy life's way forever shine 

God's radiant stars. 

II. 

golden head ! sweet, proud face ! 
Unmatched in all the world for grace. 
How far thou art from thine own place 
Upon my heart ! 

HI. 

Though miles and miles do intervene. 
Thine eyes, dear one, and mine atween. 
From Morn's birth till the death of E'en 
Mine watch for thee. 



THE LEGEND OF SISTER BEATRICE. 51 

IV. 

Good-night, dear lips, and tender eyes. 
Sweeter are none 'neath any skies ; 
Angels watcli o'er thee till the dear eyes 
Unclose in Heaven. 

V. 

Farewell, fond heart, so far away ! 
Oh ! for the power Thought owns : to stay 
Near thee forever, by night, by day- 
Sweetheart, good-night ! 

Kate Vaknah. 



THE LEGEND OP SISTER BEATRICE. 

PART I. 

Clear, and loud, from the convent tower 

Sounded the Angelas bell. 
Pealing out on the morning air. 
Calling the faithful ones to prayer. 

And they loved its tones full well. 
For more than a hundred years had rolled 
Since first from that tower the bell had tolled. 

And there they knelt, the old and the young. 
In that consecrated place. 



52 THE LEGEND OF SISTER BEATRICE. 

Breathing to Heaven the prayer that first * 
From the lips of adoring angel burst, 

" Hail, Mary, full of grace I" 
The little altar was gayly decked. 

Flowers lent their rich perfume, 
Sweet blossoms wreathed in a diadem. 
The lily borne from its slender stem. 

And the rose in its brightest bloom. 
To a pious nun had the care been given 
Of the shrine of the glorious Queen of Heaven. 

And a fair and beautiful one was she, 

AVith soft, soul-lighted eyes, 
And hair that gleamed 'neath her sable veil 

Like a glance of bright sunrise. 
From her early childhood she had been there. 

There she a woman had grown. 
And she looked with love on all around, 

She prized e'en the rugged stone. 
And oh ! she loved the Virgin pure, 

And prayed from morn till night 
That she would ever guide her steps 

In the path of truth and right. 
Sister Beatrice never was sought in vain 
By God's chosen, the poor, in sorrow or pain. 

But, hark ! there are knocks at the convent gate, 
And a prayer that those within 



THE LEGEND OF SISTER BEATRICE. 53 

Would take, in the name of the Merciful, 

A wounded soldier in. 
None needing relief had ever come 

To those convent gates in vain. 
So they carried in a gallant young knight 

Whose face was white with pain. 
And his followers said that he never would go 

Alive from that place again. 

There had been, they said, a fierce affray, 
In which he was wounded, at break of day. 
And they brought him here, for the abbess 
was famed 
Far and near for her healing art. 
His name was noble, they said, and he 
Was a knight of dauntless bravery. 

The abbess bound his wounds and watched 

And kindly tended him 
Till she saw the light of life come back 

To his eyes so sad and dim, 
The rich blood glow in his pallid cheek. 
And strength in the limbs that were faint and weak. 

Of tall and manly form was he. 

With dark and flashing eye, 
And clustering chestnut curls upon 

A forehead white and high. 



54 THE LEGEND OF SISTER BEATRICE. 

"Wise they were whom he could not beguile 
With his honeyed words and winning smile. 

With health restored he now might go, 

And yet he lingered there, 
The good nuns said, how pious he was. 

At our Lady's shrine in prayer. 
But often, too often, his eyes would rest 
On the face of one, their fairest and best, 

And she seemed to heed them not ; 
But, alas ! as the serpent tempted Eve 
Do the wicked the innocent oft deceive. 
And when is added the power of love. 
Ah I weak may the heart of a maiden prove. 

Now, who are those in this twilight hour, 

Sitting within that leafy bower ? 

Sister Beatrice she, and sad, I fear. 

Will be the hearts of the good when they hear 

That the wounded knight they had taken in 

Was urging that pure young soul to sin. 

Murmuring low are the words they speak, 
A blush glows crimson upon her cheek, 

There are tears in her downcast eyes. 
Oh I Moth^ of maidens, help her now — 
Let her not break her solemn vow, 

Bid her the tempter fly. 



THE LEGEND OF SISTER BEATRICE. 55 

She has ever served thee ; oh ! guard her well 
From the false young knight and love's fatal spell ! 

Alas ! alas ! and is the prayer 

In vain that my heart would plead ? 
Why have the wicked and bad the power 
To snatch from virtue so fair a flower 

Like a rank and worthless weed ? 
In vain when the morning comes they may seek 
The knight or the sister, so fair, but weak. 
On a trusty steed they were far away 
When the light in the sky was dim and gray. 
For once, Virgin ! pure and mild. 
Thou liast forsaken an erring child ! 

PART II. 

On a peaceful little vale the day 

Its radiant course had run, 
And the distant hills wore a rosy blush 

At the glance of the setting sun. 
Those who had labored sought for rest. 

And the welcoming word that brings 
More joy to the heart than the treasures of earth, 

Than the power or wealth of kings. 

Along the shady village road 
A stranger took her way — 



56 THE LEGEND OF SISTER BEATRICE. 

The little children paused to gaze 

Upon her in their play. 
Her steps were slow, her pallid cheek 

Showed, she had known care. 
And yet her pale and sorrowing face 

Was marvellously fair. 

An old man kindly spoke to her, 

And asked if he might show. 
As she seemed strange, the place to which 

The lady wished to go. 
'' 'Tis to the convent," she replied. 

*' That is my way," said he ; 
* ' And gladly, if you will permit, 

I'll bear you company." 

** 'Tis nearly time for Angelus," 

And even as he spoke 
The chimes from out the convent tower 

Upon the still air broke 
The lady started, and her eyes 

Were dim with gathering tears ; 
Since last she heard their sound had passed 

Full many misspent years. 

** Oh ! heard you ever, friend," she said 
(And crimson grew her face), 

*' Aught of a nun who years ago 
Resided in this place ? 



THE LEGEND OF SISTER BEATRICE. 57 

Her name was Sister Beatrice." 

The old man smiled and said : 
** Know her, our best and truest friend — 

God's blessing on her head ! 

** You surely are a stranger here. 

And from a distance, too. 
We know and love her tenderly 

Our beautiful and true ! 
Our every pain and grief grows less 

If she will only say 
That to our Blessed Lady she 

One little prayer will pray !" 

The lady sighed, and humbly thanked 

High Heaven that the place 
Deserted by an erring soul 

Was filled by one of grace. 
And then she thought how merciful 

Was He who caused the name 
Of her who sinned to pass away 

Like wax before the flame — 
And made a good and holy one 
To do the deeds she should have done. 

They entered in the little porch, 

She gave one look around, 
Her heart grew faint, tears filled her eyes 

As the low, murmurinsf sound 



58 THE LEGEND OF SISTER BEATRICE. 

Of many voices met her ear, 

In deep and heartfelt prayer, 
That rose from yirtuous hearts to Heaven, 

Like incense on the air. 

And as she sank upon her knees 

She joined with faltering breath 
Their words, " Pray for us, sinners, now, 

And at the hour of death." 
The chapel is empty, she still is there, 

And her throbbing brow is pressed 
To the steps of the altar, where she has flown 

For mercy and for rest. 

She has turned away from the pleasures of earth 

In her most triumj^hant hour ; 
She has fled, with her wildest dreams fulfilled 

Of rank, and wealth, and power — 
She was deaf to the tenderest voice of love, 

And fled in the shades of night. 
From the palace where she had reigned so long. 

The queen of the lovely and bright ! 

Weeping and prostrate now she breathes : 

"Oh ! Mother, pure, I fly. 
With broken heart, to this thy shrine. 

Within its shade to die !" 
What gentle voice is that which meets 

The sorrowing sinner's ear. 



- THE LEGEND OF SISTER BEATRICE. 59 

And in its soft and gentle tones 
Bears comfort, hope, and fear ? 

And raising up lier eyes she sees 

A form — it is her own ! 
And round it glows a light like that 

Round Heaven's starry throne ! 
* ' Have courage, child I forgiven are 

The sins that thou hast done ; 
Thy pardon I have gained from Him, 
■ My well-beloved Son ! 

" The place thy absence vacant left, 

I filled ; I knew that thou 
Wouldst come again, with broken heart 

And penitential brow. 
None knew thy absence. Take thy place !*' 

And as her blessed words cease, 
The sorrowing wanderer felt within 

Her heart that holy peace 
That all must feel who find a grace 

And favor in her eyes. 
Who ne'er was known, in any age, 

A sinner to despise ! 

PART III. 

Years had rolled on, the bell still hung 
In the convent turret gray. 



60 THE LEGEND OF SISTER BEATRICE. 

It had tolled for many a noble heart 

Forever passed away — 
For the brave and young, the good and the old, 
Sleeping alike 'neath the churchyard mould. 

And still it chimed out thrice a day 
The beautiful '' Angelus," 

In memory of the Eternal One ! 
Made man for love of us — 
And children prayed, as their sires had done. 
In that chapel, at rising and setting of sun. 

An aged nun, with snowy hair. 

And calm and holy face, 
At morning, noon, and eve was sure 

To kneel within that place. 
And all looked on her as a saint 

Who need but close her eyes 
To join her Maker in those realms 

Beyond the starry skies. 
And many marvelled why it was 

That one so good as she 
Most loved to hear the tales of those 

In sin and misery. 

It mattered not how deep the wound, 

How bitter the disgrace, 
No chiding word, no gloomy frown, 

Came on that holy lace ; 



ON A PICTURE OF ST. AGNES. 



61 



And ever did the erring find 

Hope, comfort, and advice, 

Fall on their wounded hearts from her, 

The sainted Beatrice ! 

Mary 0. Burke. 

[*'The Legend of Sister Beatrice" was pub- 
lished in the Baltimore Metropolitan Magazine, 
edited by the late Dr. J. V. Huntington, in the 
year 1855. The writer heard it told by the yen- 
erable and beloved Father Barbelin, of Philadel- 
phia. This is mentioned to show that the present 
poem was written and published in this country 
before the beautiful ^'Legend of Provence," by 
Adelaide Procter, on the same theme, was writ- 
ten.— M. 0. B.] 



ON A PICTURE OF ST. AGNES. 

It is but a simple picture, just above my table 
resting. 
Childlike face upturned in longing to the 
promise of the skies. 
With a something near to sadness the sweet lips 
and forehead cresting. 
And a look of heaven dwelling in the beautiful 
dark eyes ; 



62 ON A PICTURE OF ST. AGNES. 

It is but a simple picture, yet it tells a hallowed 
story, 
Brighter, purer for the record sin's revolving 
cycles show, 
Speaking to my thoughts — all human — with its 
own unshadowed glory 
Of a heart that loved and suffered fifteen hun- 
dred years ago. 

Kot as we love, blindly stretching forth our hands 
in weak endeavor 
To hold fast what God has branded with the 
brittle stamp of clay ; 
Not as we, unwilling, suffer, moaning childishly 
forever 
The defeat of an ambition born and buried in a 
day ; 
But as they love whom His brightness has encom- 
passed with its shining, 
Who have waited through the noontide in the 
shadow of the cross. 
Sharing in His crucifixion, with prophetic gift di- 
vining 
In earth's short-lived compensations Heaven's 
irreparable loss. 

Daughter of a race of heroes, stranger to the 
touch of sorrow. 



ON A PICTURE OF ST. AGNES. 63 

Free as snowflakes in their falling from the 
tainted breath of sin. 
Her young life had reached its fuhiess, each day 
promise of to-morrow, 
If the golden gates of Heaven had not yearned 
to take her in. 
If the dove had not descended where the haughty 
eagle flaunted 
Its black wings above the threshold of her 
proud, patrician home, 
Those pale lips had never spoken, clear, defiant, 
and undaunted, 
Their own doom of death and torture in the 
halls of pagan Rome. 

** Tear that white robe from her shoulders I" 
Tyrant mandates know not pity ; 
She droops, clothed in her own blushes — could 
there garments be more fair ? 
Lo ! downfallen from its fastenings, before all 
that mighty city. 
She stands mantled and enshrouded in the glory 
of her hair ; 
Then, as swift beneath the sword-flash streams 
the life-blood hotly gushing. 
The red current overflowing bathes her white- 
ness in its sea — 



64 ON A PICTURE OF ST. AGNES. 

Maidens, cease your tender weeping, all your 
anguished sobs be hushing. 
Pain is but a dream forever, and the martyr's 
soul is free ! 

Fifteen hundred years have followed one by one 
in sad procession 
Since the sun set over Tiber on that barbarous 
holiday ; 
Fifteen hundred waves of passage in the tide of 
retrogression 
Flowing to the shore eternal from the world it 
wears away ! 
Creatures of our own poor moulding, seeking ever 
an ideal. 
Weaving all a soul's best promise into dull and 
senseless rhymes. 
Could our thoughts but seek the treasure, might 
our hands but clasp the real. 
What were death, or pain, or torture, fifteen 
hundred thousand times ? 

thou beautiful St. Agnes ! when my heart 

grows sick and weary. 
Tiring of the toil and struggle, throbbing at the 

touch of pain. 
There is never hour so hopeless, there is never day 

so dreary, 



SYMBOLS IN NATURE. 65 

But the face upturned to Heaven can enliven 

it again ; 

For mine eyes are not so blinded that they cannot 

see the shining 

Of illimitable brightness in the pathway of the 

cross, 

And my soul is not so narrow that its faith is 

past divining 

In earth's short-lived compensations Heaven's 

irreparable loss. 

Mary E. Mankix. 



SYMBOLS IN NATURE. 

Hidden in web that fair Arachne weaves, 
Cradled in dew-drops quivering on the leaves, 
They flash in sunshine, caught in diamond drops. 
Or play in breezes, o'er the mountain-tops. 

As flutt'ring insects in fair flowerets lave, 
Or sparkling foam fast topples o'er the wave. 
Faintly the moonlight shadows liquid pearls, 
Or weird and wan, fantastic vapor curls. 

As fairy web mirrors the plans of youth, 
Exhaled like dew-drops are these plans, forsooth. 



66 ON AN INFANT'S DEATH. 

Yet darting sunbeams waken hopes anew. 

That swift as wanton winds spring forth from view. 

The lieeting insects show the morn of life, 
And rushing waters symbolize its strife ; 
'Neath scorching sun expires illusive hope. 
While all of Nature has an ideal scope. 

Madeline Vij^ton Dahlgken". 



ON AN INFANT'S DEATH. 

If but one word could bring thee back 

To life> that word would be unsaid — 
The world would never give to thee 

The peace that slumbers with the dead. 
Wert thou a man, that could go forth 

And bravely meet the rushing tide 
Of life, I then might call thee back 

To earth. Thou wert not ; therefore hide 
Thy infant head still calmly here 

In this thy peaceful solitude. 
No tale of sin or sorrow can 

In thy lone resting-place intritde ; 
There, my sweet child, thou'lt never know 

The endless cares and bitter strife. 



CATHEDRAL BIRDS. 6*? 

The few brief joys, the many tears 

That constitute a woman's life. 
Well, well I know no tears but those 

Which I have shed will damp thy cheek. 
Removed from all the cares that bow 

The head in sadness, who would seek 
To bring thee back, when every hour 

I know that thou art calmly sleeping, 
Laid gently from thy mother's heart 

In God's own holy keeping ? 

Isabel 0. Irwik. 



CATHEDRAL BIRDS. 

[DuRii^G the ceremonies of Dedication of St. 
Patrick's Cathedral, New York, May 25th, 1879, 
birds entered at windows near the high altar, and 

sang.] 

I. 

'T was true Religion's holiday. 
And benediction from on high 

Came down, 'midst priest-array 
And multitude, to sanctify 

A great Cathedral beautiful. 

In a great city's Sunday lull. 



68 CATHEDRAL BIRDS. 

II. 

"Winged visitants flew o'er the scene. 
And sang as though an angel choir, 

Whilst worshippers of happy mien 
Lifted their hearts like flames of fire. 

In praise and joy, in joy and praise. 

To God for that bright day of days. 

III. 

United woke the harmonies 

Of Faith and Nature ; all a-tnne. 

The arches, as the tops of trees, 

Resonant spread with music's croon. 

The voice of man, the song of bird. 

And strains from instruments were heard. 

IV. 

Praise was full in the sacred house — 
Joy was complete, and holy words 

Told glories of the Saviour's spouse. 
Chanted the blithe Cathedral birds 

Sweet intervals of artless song 

The capitals and aisles along. 



Unseen an angel company 

Watches the altar, where the Lord 



THE SUNLIT PATH. 69 

Of nations dwells for thee and me, 
O Christian pious, and they ward 
The Holy of Holies, as of old 
The ark of God, of wood and gold. 

VI. 

This is my faith, and for my sense. 

The presences of outer forms 
That lure to heaven, that turn me thence, 

Are as soft zephyrs 'midst rude storms ; 
And so my fancy searches words 
To celebrate Cathedral birds ! 

Rev. W. J. McClure. 



THE SUNLIT PATH. 

I. 

I PITY those who sing and sigh 
Of happy days 15ng since gone by ; 
Whose only thoughts of joy are cast 
Upon the memories of the past ; 
"Whose sole delight is with the hours 
Too swiftly fled in young love's bowers. 
As tho' advancing years had brought 
No trusting heart, no love-lit thought. 



70 THE SUNLIT PATH. 

No magic touch, no balmy word, 
No face still thro' the years adored. 

Alas, alas, 

That life should pass 
Thus, lifeless as a face on glass. 
Through shine and shade the changeless ray 
Of love brings blessings every day. 

II. 

Though bright, 'tis not in boyhood's fire 

Is found the flame of man's desire ; 

Nor in the maiden's fancy free 

The woman's proud idolatry. 

Young love but breathes the yearning tones 

By which the soul a presence owns 

That, lit by Faith, may lead the heart 

To find on earth heav'n's counterpart. 

This has no jiast, no age, no tears, 

It suits all seasons and all years ! 

Alas, alas, 

'Tis best life pass 
Thus, like the sunshine through the glass. 
Through weal and woe along life's way 
True love brings sunlight every day. 

JoHiq- Savage. 



A YOUNG POET. 71 



A YOUNG POET. 

I SAW the poets in a mighty hall. 

Each singing out of his o'erflowing heart ; 
One sang to rich and poor, to great and small ; 

One to a group that stood with him apart ; 
One warbled lays to move a maiden's soul, 

Of truth, and trust, and love that will not fail ; 
While other bards sang of the cannon's roll 

In tones that made their gentle listeners quail. 

But one there was — a youthful singer he — 

Who only gave sweet echoes of the rest. 
Who only reproduced the melody 

That had its birthplace in some older breast ; 
And many scoffed and called him *' mocking-bird," 

While others harmed him more with lavish 
praise ; 
But when that voice of passion I had heard, 

And gazed my fill upon the glowing face, 
I paused in doubt and hope — for surely he. 

With ears so true for every singer's tone. 
Shall one day wake to Nature's harmony, 

And make her thrilling language all his own ; 
Rise in the etlier on his own strong wings, 
Sing the stars music — not man's renderings. 

Eliza Wayles. 



72 MARGUERITE. 

MAEGUERITE. 

I SAW tliee first in fashion's tide, 

And marvelled at thy grace, 
No prescient sprite from me could hide 

Thy wondrous form and face, 
Thy roscid lips, the lambent deeps 

Of passion in thine eyes. 
Thy wealth of sun-bathed hair, all steeps 

My soul in rapt surprise. 

Thy queenly mien, thy radiant smile 

Allure me to thy side. 
While swiftly to my fate the while, 

My footsteps onward glide. 
Thy beauty wins all other hearts. 

But mine it cannot move, 
I feel thine eyes enchanting dart, 

And still I do not love. 

I see thee now 'mid nature's bowers. 

Apart from glare and noise, 
How short are made the summer hours. 

By thy sweet harmless joys. 
But forth to view thy lovely traits — 

Thy virtues calm and sweet. 
My heart goes out through sundered gates j 

I love tliee. Marguerite ! 

V. A. GoDDARD, Lieut. U. S. A. 



WHEN MOTHERS WATCH. 73 

THERE IS ALWAYS LIGHT IN HEAVEN. 

There is alwaj^s light in heaven — 

Not the light we see afar 
When the West with gold is flowing, 

Nor the light of moon or star. 

Not the light the royal Poet 

Saw around his music thought 
Nor the light the favored Moses 

From the mountain-summit brought. 

There is always light in heaven — 

Light the Just alone can see 
When the day of life is ended, 

And the soul from earth is free. 

Rev. W. p. Treact. 



WHEN MOTHERS WATCH. 

When" mothers watch beside their children's cra- 
dles 

And kiss the snowy brows and golden hair, 
They do not see the future that is coming, 

Though life is made of grief, and pain, and care. 

But God is good to all the tender mothers. 
He veils the future with its pain and sin, 



74 WHEN MOTHERS WATCH. 

Though sometimes fears may dim the present 
gladness, 
Yet never can they quench the hope within. 

Yes, God is very good to tender mothers, 
They see no thorns upon the golden head 

Of him who plays among life's earliest roses, 
That bloom a fleeting hour, and then are dead. 

Yet she, the model of all earthly mothers. 
Was never spared the pain of knowing this : 

That, though the Christ-child played with bloom- 
ing roses, 
The cross must come, for all her prayerful bliss. 

To look — He slept — upon His snowy eyelids, 
And know that they should close upon the 
Tree 
To gaze upon His smooth and stainless forehead 
And know that there great drops of blood 
should be. 

To catch His dimpled hands and softly warm 
them, 

As mothers do, between her own, was pain. 
She felt the nail prints on their velvet surface. 

She could not save her Lamb from being slain. 



TRANSITION. 75 

When mothers watch beside their children's cra- 
dles, 
And dream bright dreams for them of joy and 
fame, 
Let them remember Mary's trust through anguish. 
And ask all blessiugs through the Holy Name. 

Mauiuce F. Egak. 



TRANSITION. 

A MIDSUMMER EEVERIE. 

Midway in air the crescent swims, aglow 
With that pale fire which veils the face of night, 
And makes the red of roses wan and white ; 
Those wayward fauns, the Breezes, bending low, 
Scatter rich incense ; the dim tales I know 
Out of old books arise for my delight ; 
I dwell in No-Man's-Land ; my drowsy sight 
Is filled with wondrous dreams of long ago ; 
I dream that love lies bleeding from the dart 
Which on another night missed Dian's shield. 
" Love !" higher thoughts awaken ; myths depart. 
Transfigured, brighter than the starry field 
Above the crescent, the dear Lord I see, 
I cry, " Love bleeds, Sacred Heart, in thee !" 

Maurice F. Egan. 



76 MY NAMESAKE. 

MY NAMESAKE. 

Commend me to the little lady, 
Dainty, darling Eleanor — 

Basil, Flora, Ethel, Sadie, 
Kiss her for me o'er and o'er. 
Never little maiden bore 

('Neath a sunny sky or shady), 
With such charming grace before, 
That sweet name of Eleanor ! 

While around the princess cling 
Purity and peace divine, 
Kiss her brow and kiss her lips. 
Kiss her lids till they eclipse 
Those bright, speaking eyes which shine 
Like wet violets in Spring, 
When the light is quivering 

In and out their petals fine. 
Ah ! the Ipvely, laughing thing ! 
On her soft cheek, flush'd like wine, 
Does she feel my spirit-lips. 
Feel my viewless finger-tips ? 
As I clasp her close and. sing : 

** Thou art mine — art mine — art mine !" 

When they wrote me : " 'Tis a girl — 
And we've named her after thee," 



MY NAMESAKE. 77 

my blossom ! my pearl ! 
Mine own name seemed then to be 
Sweeter, dearer unto me 

Than it ever proved before ; 
And a chime of bells seemed ringing 

From some dim celestial shore, 
Crystal bells forever swinging, 

Ever ringing, o'er and o'er, 

"Eleanor ! Eleanor ! 

Spirits of the sky and shore, 
Spirits of the wood and water. 
Hasten to this new-born daughter, 

Haste to sleeping Eleanor !" 

And I saw the spirits trooping, 
Flitting, kneeling, sitting, stooping, 
Round the little downy nest. 
Where the babe was laid to rest. 
Heaven bless the shining things ! 

With their pearly chaplets crown'd — 
How their silver wands and wings 

Sparkled, as they gathered round ! 
And I cried : " angels gentle ! 

Make her lovely, make her mild ; 
Spiritual gifts and mental. 

Shower on this little child. 
Give her grace and give her beauty, 

Till she blossom like a rose ; 



78 MY NA^JESAKE. 

Help her know and do her duty 

With the strength which God bestows ; 
And above all lore and art, 
Make her meek and pure of heart !" 

Then the spirits, in a twinkling, 
O'er the cradle flowers sprinkling, 
Sang together : ^' We implore, 

Eleanor ! Eleanor ! 
(In baptismal waters shriven). 
Child of grace ! to thee be given 
All the holiest gifts of heaven ; 

Therefore now and evermore. 

Thou art blest, Eleanor ! 

Ever — ever — evermore !" 

Ere the echo faded quite 

Every sprite 
Vanished in a flood of light. 
So commend me fondly, truly, 

To this blessed Eleanor ; 
Mabel, Jessie, little Julie, 

Kiss her for me o'er and o'er ; 
Gay Alexis, smoking coolly 

In the open garden-door, 

Kiss her for me yet once more. 

Ah ! my precious ! many a mile 
Lies betwixt me and thy smile ; 



79 



THE POET'S LITTLE RIVAL. 

Yet the hour may come, my pet. 
When I'll clasp and kiss thee yet. 
Be its advent far or near, 
Born of clouded skies or clear, 
In that hour without a fear. 

May I Eleanor {la grande), 
Say to Eleanor {petite), 

'' Thou art all my hopes demand 
Or my heart desires, my sweet ! 
Thou art lovely, thou art holy. 
Thou art learned and thou art lowly. 

With a meek and quiet spirit 
And a true and guileless heart- 
All of this and more thou art 1" 

'Tis for this (oh, hend and hear it !) 
'Tis for this, I wait apart ! 



Little namesake ! fair Elaine ! 
Do not let me wait in vain. 

Eleakor C. Donnelly. 



THE POET'S LITTLE EIVAL. 

A DAINTY desk of rosewood. 
With a half-completed sonnet. 



80 THE POET'S LITTLE RIVAL. 

And a buncli of summer roses 

111 a Sevres vase upon it ; 
And a bronze and crystal standish. 

And a golden pen or two. 
Whole reams of satin paper, 

Pink and azure and ecru, 
And the poets, great and tiny, 

Scattered round in gold and blue. 

On the wall a linnet singing, 

In a niche a clock of buhl. 
Under foot an Indian matting ; 

And the casement, low and cool. 
Twined about with waving ivy. 

Where the sunset glory burns ; 
And the light and shade go creeping, 

Making bright and dark by turns. 
The pendant basket swinging 

From the trellis, full of ferns. 

And the poet, ah ! the poet. 

He quits his pleasant seat. 
And sees his little daughter 

In the garden at his feet. 
Walking with her fair-haired mother. 

In a dress of snowy lawn. 
Prattling softly to the flowers. 

As they wander on and on. 



SAID THE ROSE. 81 

Saying : " I must make a poem, 
Ere the roses all are gone !" 

Then the poet leans and listens 

With a quaint and tender air. 
As the bird-like child goes darting 

Through the beautiful parterre. 
*' Bravo ! bravo I little poet I" 

(Startled, flush'd with love's sunshine) 
" See my poem, papa darling? 

Every word a blossom fine !" 
'' Sweet !" he says ; " God bless thee, daughter. 

Ne'er was poem writ like thine !" 

Eleakor C. Donnelly. 



SAID THE ROSE. 

I AM weary of the garden. 

Said the Rose ; 
For the winter winds are sighing. 
All my playmates round me dying, 
And my leaves will soon be lying 

'Neath the snows. 

But I hear my Mistress coming, 

Said the Rose ; 
She will take me to her chamber. 



S2 SAID THE ROSE. 

Where the honeysuckles clamber, 
And I'll bloom there all December 
Spite the snows. 

Sweeter fell her lily fingers 

Than the Bee ! 
Ah, how feebly I resisted. 
Smoothed my thorns, and e'en assisted 
As all blushing I was twisted 

Off my tree. 

And she fixed me in her bosom 

Like a star ; 
And I flashed there all the morning. 
Jasmin, honeysuckle scorning. 
Parasites forever fawning 

That they are. 

And when evening came she set me 

In a vase 
All of rare and radiant metal. 
And I felt her red lips settle 
On my leaves till each proud petal . 

Touched her face. 

And I shone about her slumbers 

Like a light ; 
And, I said, instead of weeping. 



83 



SAID THE ROSE. 

In the garden vigil keeping, 
Here I'll watch my Mistress sleeping 
Every night. 

But when morning with its sunbeams 

Softly shone, 
In the mirror where she braided 
Her brown hair I saw how jaded, 
Old and colorless and faded 

I had grown. 

Not a drop of dew was on me, 

Never one ; 
From my leaves no odors started, 
All my perfume had departed, 
I lay pale and broken-hearted 

In the sun. 

Still I said, her smile is better 

Than the rain ; 
Though my fragrance may forsake me. 
To her bosom she will take me. 
And with crimson kisses make me 

Young again. 

So she took me . . gazed a second . . 

Half a sigh . . 
Then, alas, can hearts so harden ? 



84 SAID THE ROSE. 

Without ever asking pardon. 
Threw me back into the garden 
There to die. 

How the jealous garden gloried 

In my fall ! 
How the honeysuckles chid me, 
How the sneering jasmins bid me 
Light the long, gray grass that !iid me 

Like a pall. 

There I lay beneath her window 

In a swoon. 
Till the earthworm o'er me trailing, 
"Woke me just at twilight's failing, 
As the whip-poor-will was wailing 

To the moon. 

But I hear the storm-winds stirring 

In their lair ; 
And I know they soon will lift me 
In their giant arms and sift me 
Into ashes as they drift me 

Through the air. 

So I pray them in their mercy 

Just to take 
From my heart of hearts or near it 



A SWEET SINGER. 85 

The last living leaf, and bear it 

To her feet, and bid her wear it 

For my sake. 

George H. Miles. 



AT THE GATE OF JUNE. 

These days a spotless Hand 
Turns hid sky gold to a million drops 
Of honey, to sweeten the sweet rose-tops 

At the gate of June. 

These nights the gardens stand 
In scented dews, and fairy queens meet. 
Holding thick nets of grass, pansy-crowns sweet, 

At the gate of June. 

JOHN^ ACTOX. 



A SWEET SINGER. 

ADELAIDE Al^N'E PROCTER. 

She sang of love — the love whose fires 
Burn with a pure and gentle flame ; 

No passion lights of wild desires. 
Red with the lurid glow of shame. 

She sang of angels, and their wings 
Seemed rustling through each soft refrain ; 



86 ROMA— AMOR. 

Gladness and sorrow, kindred things, 
She wove in many a tender strain. 

She sang of heaven and of God, 
Of Bethlehem's star and Calvary's way, 

Gethsemane, the bloody sod, 
Death, darkness, resurrection day. 

She sang of Mary. Mother blest, 
Her sweetest carols were of thee ! 

Close folded to thy loving breast, 
How fair her home in heaven must be ! 
Mary E. MAiq^i^ix. 



ROMA— AMOK. 

" Strength is none on earth save Love. " 

Aubrey de Vere. 
Suggested by a statue by Miss A. Whitney, exhibited in 
Boston, April, 1876 

I. 

TJpoi^ the statue's base I read its name — 

'^ Rome," nothing more ; so leaving to each 

thought 
To mould in mind the form the sculptor 
wrought, 
The living soul within the dead clay's frame. 
And was this Rome ? so weak and sad and old. 



ROMA— AMOR. 87 

So crouching down with withered lip and cheek, 

With trembling fingers stretched as if to seek 
The thoughtless wanderers' idly given gold. 
Some Roman coins loose-lying in her lap. 

Some treasure saved from out her ancient 
wealth. 

Or begged with downcast look as if by stealth, 
Fearing her end, and wishing still, mayhap. 
Enough to hold to pay stern Charon's oar 
When the dead nations o'er the Styx it bore. 

II. 

And was this Rome? this shrunken, shivering 
form, 
This beggared greatness sitting abject down ; 
Her throne a broken shaft's acanthus crown 

Whose crumbling beauty still outlived the storm. 

Where were her legions ? eagles ? where her pride ? 
The conqueror's laurel binding once her head ?^ 
She, the world's mistress, begging so her bread 

At her own gates, her empire's wreck beside ! 

Withered and old, craven in form and face. 
Yet keeping still some gift from out the past 
In the broad mantle o'er her shoulders cast. 

Where lingered yet her ancient, haughty grace — 

Conscious each fold of that far-sounding name. 

Imperial still in spite of loss and shame. 



88 ROMA— AMOR. 

III. 

And was this Rome ? Nor faith, nor hope, nor 
love 
Writ in the story of her wrinkled face 
Where weariness and sad old age had place, 

For earthly days no cheer, no light above ! 

All earthly greatness to this measure shrunk ? 
With burning heart I gazed. Was this the 

thought 
The sculptor in the answering clay had 
wrought — 

Caesar's proud empress in the beggar sunk 

For men to mock at in her weak old age ? 
Was this a living Rome, or one, long dead. 
That waked to life a modern Caesar's tread. 

Claiming with outstretched hand her heritage ? 

While the strong nations she once triumphed o'er 

Scarce heeded her they served with awe before ? 

IV. 

Where, then, was she that was Eternal called ? 
Bore she no likeness of immortal youth, 
Did she lament her cruel dower in truth 

As once Tithonus by sad gift enthralled ? 

All joy of youth long perished, living on. 
In dread possession of the pitiless gift. 
In hopeless age set helplessly adrift, 



ROMA— AMOR. 89 

Her bread the bitter thought of days bygone I 
No word immortal on the statue writ, 

Save the deep bitterness of graven name ; 

No trumpet telling dumbly of her fame, 
Nor unquenched lamp by vestal virgin lit — 
Youth, empire, and her people's love all o'er, 
Unqueened, and still undying, evermore ! 

V. 

artist ! lurks there in your sculptured thought 
No vision of another Rome than this ? 

• Along the antique border of her dress 

1 sought in vain to see the symbol wrought 
That she has steadfast borne since first its touch 

Did her, the holy one, e'er consecrate 

The tender mother of the desolate, 
Consoler of poor hearts o'erburdened much. 
Pure spouse of Him who is Eternal Life ; 

Inheritor of beauty ever new 

Yet ever ancient, 'missioned to subdue 
Beneath love's yoke the nations lost in strife — 
Rome's eagles shadowed not a realm so wide 
As lights the cross, her trust from Him that died. 

VI. 

Rome ! imperial lady. Christian queen ! 
Art thou discrowned and desolate indeed ? 
All vainly doth thy smitten greatness plead. 



90 ROMA— AMOR. 

Reads none the sorrow of thy brow serene, 
Perished thy eagles and overthrown thy cross ? 
Thou banished from possession of thine own. 
While they who rob thee fling thee mocking down 
An ancient Roman robe to hide thy loss 
That the world, seeing thy fair-seeming state. 
Shall greet the Caesar who gives thee such grace, 
Nor heed the appealing sorrow in thy face, 
Nor hear thy cry like his who at the gate 
Of Jericho cried out. Bide thou thy day — 
Thy Western children for thee weep and pray. 

YII. 

So once in Pilate's hall thy Master stood 
In Roman purple robed, and none divined 
The holy mystery in those folds enshrined — 
The sorrowing God-head lifted on the Rood. 
Such was His portion here ; with thee He shares 
His grief divine. Ah ! grandly art thou 

crowned — 
Fair in the light of truth thy brows around — 
With thorns like His, while thy strong hand uprears 
His wide-armed cross, there leaning on its 
strength ! 
What though thy constant sorrow shade thine 

eyes ? 
Undying hope about thy sweet mouth lies ; 



FORGIVENESS. ^^ 

That faith is thine that hath been all the length 
Of centuries past, that shall be centuries o'er ; 
And on thy bosom writ I read— Amor. 

VIII. 

Each letter seeming with a ruddy hue- 
Won from His Passion who is Perfect Love- 
To glow the whiteness of thy robe above, 
Thy own heart staining red thy raiment through. 
What though thy hands are fettered as they lift 
The blessing of the cross ? They still can guide. 
Like Israel's cloud, thy children scatteied wide ; 
Still are they warning to lost flocks adrift 
On mist-enshrouded slopes ; still can they bless 
Thy faithful ones who, weeping, peace implore, 
Who,striving,spread thy realm far countries o'er. 
Still rulest thou while kings, as shadows, pass ; 
And still the weary, craving love and home, 
Peace in thy bosom seek. Eternal Rome ! 

Edith W. Cook. 



FORGIVENESS. 

When having sinned we very humbly kneel 

In fakh to seek forgiveness, then how low 
How insignificant, how weak we feel. 



92 VALES AND MOUNTAINS. 

But when absolved we rise, our faces glow 
With lieaven-sent happiness ; then all below 
Seems strangely beautiful, soft graces steal 
Around our hearts, and make us long to heal 

Another's wounds and stop the tear-drops' 
flow. 
Oh ! could our hearts be ever thus inclined 
To call each suffering human being, friend — 
To pluck one thorn from out another's way. 
How much more sweetness, in this life, we'd find; 
What blessings would upon our heads descend 
And light the portal to Eternal day. 

Wm. Livii^^gstok. 



VALES AND MOUNTAINS. 



There is a laughter and a grief 

In all the world of thought and act ;. 
There is oppression and relief 

In fancy as there is in fact. 
The new-born rise, the nged sink, 

The cradle and the hearse 
United hold, united link 

A blessing and a curse ! 



VALES AND MOUNTAINS. 93 

II. 

Deep vales there are in every life. 

And mountains, where the soul may climb, 
And, utilizing peace and strife. 

Affirm its energies sublime. 
As man and man, robust and weak. 

The toiler and the lord 
The same air breathe, the same tongue speak, 

But walk not in accord. 

III. 
Grand nations groan within the vales, 

And each one wears a thorny crown ; 
While on the mountains wind the trails 
, Of empires, struggling up and down. 
The spirit-flames of freedom burn — 

Loud revolutions roar — 
The monarchs shrink, the peoples yearn, 

And strike from shore to shore. 

IV. 

As go the years ill-fated lands 
Fall to the vales, bereft of power ; 

Exalted lurk tyrannic bands. 
To warn and ward the vengeful hour — 

The hour when from the vales arise 
The erst-bound, strong and free. 



94 FERNS FROM WATKINS GLEN. 

To hurl them from the peaks and skies 
Designed for Liberty ! 

Key. Wm. J. McClure. 



FERXS FROM WATKINS GLEN. 

EMERALD-tinted, purely glowing, 

In the cool depths of the dim glen growing ; 

Hid from the beam that scathes and burns, 

Slender, trembling, delicate ferns, 

How ye glad with your timid graces 

Lonesome clefts in the rough rock-places ! 

Shrink ye warily, bending lightly. 

As the chill spray-shower gems ye brightly. 

Do the gay butterflies bring ye stories 

Of the far hill- tops' sunny glories ? 

Or greetings blithesome and full of love 

From sister-ferns in the woods above ? 

Over the rocks the wild brooks leap, 
Brave vines cling to their foothold steep 
Bracing breath from the pine-trees thrills us. 
Weird and wondering gladness fills us, 
While we gather ye, ferns so purely glowing. 
In the cool depths of the dim glen growing. 

KATHERIiq^E E. OOKWAY. 



THE MOUNTAIN OF THE HOLY CROSS. 95 

THE MOUNTAIN OF THE HOLY CROSS. 

"There is a very beautiful peculiarity iu the mountain 
as its name shows. The principal peak is composed of 
gneiss, and the cross fractures of the rock on the eastern 
slope have made two great fissures, which cut into one 
another at right angles, and hold their snow in the form of 
a cross the summer long." — " Picturesque Ameiica." Vol. 
II. p. 503. 

I. 

An^ear a rocky mountain-top a pallid cross is 

placed ; 
Not by pencil, not by cliisel, nor human hand 'tis 

traced ; 
For the labor elemental, aerial, terrene, 
Was within the grasp of Nature, and there she 

holds the scene. 

II. 
The traveller looks upward, as it were, in search 

of God, 
As 'mid the Western giant-peaks his feet, a-weary, 

plod ; 
He sees not the Almighty's face, yet not entire the 

loss — 
He yiews one of His Qionuments — the Mountain of 

the Cross. 

III. 

In recollection of the way in which the Saviour 
died. 



96 THE MOUNTAIN OF THE HOLY CROSS. 

He kneels, and speaks some childhood prayers that 

with him still abide. 
'Tis not a sainted spot, forsooth, 'tis not Mount 

Calvary, 
But the mark upon the mountain is the semblance 

of the Tree ! 

IV. 

Before the Eastern pioneers had pierced the farther 

wild. 
The labor of the elements divided and compiled — 
And Nature, as a sculptor, cut vast fissures, full 

of night. 
And Nature, as a limner, made the sculpture 

snowy white. 

V. 

So on a Rocky Mountain side the Holy Cross is 

placed, 
By the fissures and the snow-falls the sign of Faith 

is traced ; 
And the Christian in the valley may bend upon 

the moss. 
Lifting up his heart to heaven at the Mountain of 

the Cross. 

Rev. W. J. McClure. 



A HYMN TO THE QUEEN OF MAY. 97 

SAINT CECILIA. 

Far greater than Apollo's was thy song, 
0, virgin saint, Cecilia ! His but stirred 
The stones and trees, the timid, wandering herd 

And savage beast ; but thine did sound among 

The angels, move the souls of men along 

To those great joys unseen, unthought, unheard, 
(The greatest joy of which is Christ, the Word) 

And make of weaklings martyrs great and strong. 

Thy music was not sung of carnal things, 
Nor of those passions that do oft arise 
In human hearts, and lure them unto death ; 

But God and Mary and the love that clings 

About them, thou didst sing, and of those sighs 

That saints breathe with their last sweet, dying 

breath. 

JOHK A. McHuGH. 



A HYMN TO THE QUEEN OF MAY. 

Had I the mind of the poet king. 
And the voice of St. Dunstan's lyre, 

I could not write — I could not sing. 
As my heart and my soul desire ; 

No human pow'r can frame the sound. 
No celestial choir can chime th' lay 



08 A HYMN TO THE QUEEN OF MAY. 

Worthy of thee— forever crown'd — 
Our lo^'d and loving Queen of May. 

The hermit in his rocky cell, 

The virgin from her still retreat. 
The woodman in his piny dell — 

Ay, thousands in the noisy street ; 
The poor and rich, the wise and great, 

Where'er our Pontiff holds his sway, 
To thee their hearts now elevate, 

0, lov'd and loving Queen of May. 

Within the winding catacomb, 

When burning Christians lit the night. 
What song was heard 'neath pagan Rome, 

So pure, so pleasing in God's sight ? 
What song rolls down St. Peter's aisles ? 

What music does its organs play? 
What song can win dear Jesus' smiles ? 

Thy hymn, loving Queen of May. 

Let maidens bring thee wreaths of snow. 

Let youthful bards sing sweet of thee, . 
Let all life's vet'rans to thee go, 

And bend their hearts when bends their knee. 
But, like St. John, let me love 

Thee as my Mother and my stay. 
And grant, grant, I'll see above, 

My lov'd, my loving Queen of May. 

Rev. W. p. Tracy. 



A THOUGHTFUL HOUR. 99 

A THOUGHTFUL HOUR. 

The blood-red flush of sunset fades slowly from 
the wall. 

The shadows of the trembling leaves across the 
window fall ; 

The dewy air, all blossom sweet, steals through the 
darkening room, 

And wakes to life a thousand thoughts that glori- 
fy the gloom. 

The long, long day, the summer day, was beauti- 
ful and bright. 

And yet, we hail with thankful hearts the sooth- 
ing calm of night ; 

The labor of the skilful hand and busy brain were 
sweet. 

But sweeter is the restful hour when hope and 
memory meet. 

The by-gone hours, with outstretched hands, dis- 
play their golden store 

Of joys that thrilled our inmost souls, and blest 
us evermore ; 

Or point us to the threatening shades of death, 
and sin, and pain. 

And show the sheltering angel wings that turned 
their arrows rain. 



100 A THOUGHTFUL HOUR. 

The years that lie before us — they are registered on 

high- 
How strange the thought, there's One who knows 

the hour \vhen we must die ; 
The last, last hour when earthly good to worthless 

dross will turn, 
And fiercest fires of earthly love, uncared for, 

cease to burn. 
But even this has not the power to sadden or dis- 
may, 
'Twill come, "to those who love the Lord," as 

comes this close of day, 
The burdens borne with patient hands, the tasks 

all wrought in love. 
Will set the night of death with stars more bright 

than those above. 

O, blessed, blessed twilight hour, what strength 
and peace you baring ! 

Far through your depths of placid shade, what 
heavenly voices ring. 

To cheer and comfort those who pause, through- 
out the silent land. 

To smooth the tangled threads of life, and lay 
them in God's hand 

Sarah T. Smith. 



THE CHRISTMAS MASS. 101 

THE CHRISTMAS MASS. 

The air is cold and silent, 

The midnight hour is past. 
The dawn is only coming. 

The moon is waning fast. 

You see the gleaming river, 
And the starlight on its tide— 

A giant sword of silver 

Hung at the black night's side. 

The stars are bright above you. 
Long have those eyes kept ward. 

Long have they watched and waited 
For the coming of the Lord. 

And now they count your footsteps. 

Steps echoing in the street — 
Angels' eyes ! they count your footsteps, 

As you go the Child to greet. 

At last you reach the threshold. 
Where the sacred candle's light 

Rests on the blind old beggar. 
Gives a blessing to the night. 

The blind old beggar thanks you 
As he never did before ; 



lOa WHY I CELEBRATE THE DAY. 

For who can be a miser • 

On this morn, at Christ's own door ? 

In all the glorious hours 

Of the golden Christmas Da}^ 

Is there any purer, sweeter, 

Than the one that leads the way 

To the manger of the Christ-child, 

To the altar of the King, 
To the temple of the holy. 

Where the joyous angels sing ? 

Maurice F. Egan". 



WHY I CELEBRATE THE DAY 

11^ REPLY TO AN AMERICAI^ FRIEND. 

Silly question 'tis you ask me — 

Why I celebrate the day ? 
I, an exile from an Island 

Full three thousand miles away. 
Finding here a home and welcome. 

Swearing fealty and defence 
To the starry flag of freedom. 

And forever gone from thence 
Why should I, you wondering ask me. 

Hold such love for Isle so far — 



WHY I CELEBRATE THE DAY. 103 

Clear across the waste of waters, 
Cold and distant as a star ? 

Friend, that Island is my mother. 

From her fertile soil I sprang ; 
Generously my youth she nurtured. 

And my lullahy she sang. 
Mark me well, that man's a villain. 

Mean and cold as clod of earth. 
In whose heart there's no affection 

For the land that gave him birth. 
If, of it, no tender memories 

Up before his vision swim, 
Then the land that gives him shelter 

Can expect no love from him ! 

'Tis a light and thoughtless question. 

Why I love the dear old sod. 
Where my eyes first looked to heaven, 

And my lightsome feet first trod. 
Must a man, because he marries. 

Cease to love and venerate. 
In his heart, the dear old mother. 

Sitting sad and desolate ? 
Trust me,, friend, the better husband 

Always is the better son ; 
Heaven protect the maiden from him, 

Who, for mother, love has none I 



104 WHY I CELEBRATE THE DAY. 

Well I love this broad and noble 

Land, with love as pure as gold ; 
None the less because my spirit 

Visits, now and then, the old ; 
Freely would I grasp a sabre, 

Eally round the flag of stars, 
No less ready for the reason 

That I'd shiver Ireland's bars ! 
Mingled in the manly bosom 

Is the love for mother — wife ; 
So my love for both lands mingles 

In the current of my life. 

Could you doubt our Irish fealty ? 

Call the muster of your dead. 
Find a field in all your history. 

Where no Irish valor bled — 
Where their deeds no rays of glory 

Shed around the starry flag. 
From the plains of Saratoga 

On to Lookout's highest crag ! 
Ours a nature large and lavish. 

Generous as our mother land ; 
No cold, shallow stream that barely 

Covers selfishness' sand ! 

And you ask the shallow question. 
Why I celebrate the day ? 



WHY I CELEBRATE THE DAY. 105 

Friend, I celebrate no triumph 

Won in battle's bloody fray — 
Triumph of one kingly despot, 

O'er another at the cost 
Of a hecatomb of heroes, 

And, perhaps, of freedom lost ! 
Nor a victory ignoble 

Of one faction, class or creed, 
While a strife-distracted nation 

Wept the fratricidal deed ! 

'Tis not these my memory hallows ; 

Friend, it is a sacred cause — 
'Tis the bringing to a people 

Christian light and love and laws. 
Gentle Patrick, the Apostle, 

Brought no flaming battle-brand ; 
In his heart of peace the Gospel, 

And a shamrock in his hand. 
These the weapons that he wielded, 

Ireland bowed to Heaven's sway ; 
Who'd object but brutish bigot, 

If we celebrate his day ? 

Far I've left my mother country. 
Made this fair young land my bride ; 

Both I'll ever love and cherish 
And defend, whate'er betide. 



106 CEDRON. 

From lier cliffs lefc Erin beckon. 

And I hasten to her aid ; 
Let a caitiff strike Cohimbia — 

From its scabbard leaps the blade ! 
Ha ! I note your eye's approval ; 

With my tenets yon agree ; 
Come, thou brave and free Columbian, 

Come and celebrate with me ! 

P. S. Cassidy. 



CEDROjS". 
Where silence broods on ruin, thou alone, 
Sweet oracle, in rippling numbers low. 
Dost onward, through the waste of ages flow. 
As an eternal echo. With thy tone 
Blent David's holy anthems, and the moan 
That shook his heart in exile didst thou know, 
What time his tears of tributary woe 
Commingled with thy wave. And David's Son 
In after years on Love's vicarious way, 
Breathed Life above thee, and thy torrent told 
Its music to the wide-proclaiming sea : 
And thus, through all earth's changes manifold. 
Where death and silence strive for mastery. 
Still throb prophetic melodies of old. 
Encompassing the burthen of thy lay. 

John B. Tabb. 



THOU WILT NEVER GROW OLD. 107 

THOU WILT NEVER GROW OLD. 

Thou wilt never grow old, 

Nor weary, nor sad, in the home of thy birth ; 

My beautiful lily, thy leaves will unfold 

In a clime that is purer and brighter than earth. 

holy and fair, I rejoice thou art there. 

In that kingdom of light, with its cities of gold : 
Where the air thrills with angel hosannas, and 

where 
Thou wilt never grow old, sweet, 
Never grow old ! 

1 am a pilgrim, with sorrow and sin 
Haunting my footsteps wherever I go ; 
Life is a warfare my title to win. 
Well will it be if it end not in woe. 
Pray for me, sweet, I am laden with care, 
Dark are my garments with mildew and mould : 
Thou, my bright angel, art sinless and fair. 
And wilt never grow old, sweet, 

Never grow old ! 

Now, canst thou hear from thy Wbme in the skies, 
All the fond words I am whispering to thee ? 
Dost thou look down on me with the soft eyes. 
Greeting me oft ere thy spirit was free ? 



108 A PROPHECY. 

So I believe, thougli the shadows of time 
Hide the bright spirit I yet shall behold : 
Thou wilt still love me, and, pleasure sublime ! 
Thou wilt never grow old, sweet, 
Never grow old. 

Thus wilt thou be when the pilgrim, grown gray, 
Weeps when the vines from the hearthstone are 

riven ; 
Faith shall behold thee as pure as the day 
Thou wert torn from the earth and transplanted to 

heaven. 
0, holy and fair, I rejoice thou art there. 
In that kingdom of light, with its cities of gold. 
Where the air thrills with angel hosannas, and 

where 
Thou wilt never grow old, sweet, 
Never grow old. 

Ellen Clementine IIowartu. 



A PROPHECY. 

FROM THE '^PIONEER." 

One morn when Putnam, seated by her side. 
Was listening to her read the Inspired Book — 
It was the Sabbath— at the door appeared 
A stranger of the race which they had oft 



A PROPHECY. 109 

Heard spoken of, but never seen before. 
The plumes of Eagle in his hair were twined. 
Around his neck the claws of grizzly bear, 
While from his tattooed breast and shoulders hung 
A tomahawk, and bow with quiver full 
Of slender arrows pointed with a flint. 
Startled they were by such a visitor. 
And Putnam's eye upon his rifle turned. 
And Martha dropped the Book. 

'' Oh, Paleface, why 
Do you fear me ? welcome to my broad domain I 
Welcome !" And Blackhawk, as he spoke, held out 
His hand towards them. Then they shook his hand. 
And like old friends they were ; and presently 
Were strolling with him to the patch of corn 
Which Martha planted. " It is small," he said ; 
" And with the frost's first bite will wither up. 
But in my wigwam I have plenty stored ; 
Come take what ye may need.'' *' Thanks, we 

will come." 
And Putnam thought the Indian wondrous kind ; 
A Christian could not be more generous. 

But when they stood upon the spot which once 
The ancient tree had shaded with its limbs. 
The tree, where Eagles for a thousand years 
Had built their eyrie, Blackhawk bowed his head 



110 A PROPHECY. 

And groaned, and muttered words so very sad. 
That Martha asked what harm had come to him. 
'^ A prophet once — far in the days of old — 
Did plant an acorn here/' the chief replied. 
'* And from it sprang an Oak. ' Long as it lives 
My tribe will live,' the Seer did prophecy. 
The tree is gone ; there's Evil on the wing ; 
Oh, Paleface, tell me, why hast thou done this ?" 

" Oh, blame him not," said Martha, for she saw 
His eyes in anger turn upon her spouse. 
' ' To give me shelter he cut down the tree. 
Had he but known it was so dear to thee. 
His axe would not have touched it." 

''It is done," 
Went on the Chief ; ' ' forget I never can. 
Forgive I do, and from my store of corn 
Will plenty give to prove I am a friend ; 
But now good-by ; 'twere better that I go 
In solitude awhile to mourn the fate 
The prophet prophesied in days of old.'^ 
With this he left. And this Sabbath-day 

Martha was sad 

She sighed. Then Putnam spoke : " It has to be. 
I did not tell him so, but he is doomed ; 
Ay, with the Bison, Blackhawk must depart." 

Wm. Setok. 



